Hermione
by who-need's-a-hero12
Summary: One-shot, Non-Magic, Modern AU: Tom is a struggling writer fresh out of university when he meets Hermione at a new art gallery. She opens new doors in his life and he's never been happier, but it only lasts so long-the art exhibit is leaving soon, and she's going with it. Rated t for language and mentions of drugs, alcohol, and death.


**I posted this last night, but it was taken down because in the summary I stated it was in the 2****nd**** person, and does not allow interactive entries…So, here's a repost. **

Summer Challenge Fill from Tumblr: In 2nd person and need to start with "you saw me before I saw you"

_Hermione _

Warning_: _Mentions of alcohol ,drugs, and death.

_**You saw me before I saw you**_. From the moment I entered the gallery, you were watching me.

Bellatrix Black had invited me to a showing of her family's collection of art in a new gallery. They had been collecting pieces of art for years, and the Blacks always loved an excuse to show off their wealth. The gallery, located in a modern loft in downtown London, had just opened recently. It was crowded and too bright for my taste; I was used to smoky clubs and dimly lit bookstores. I felt out of place, and you didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the rabble either. Why?

You weren't beautiful. You weren't even pretty. Your clothes weren't chic and from the newest designers of Milan. Your face was plain and you wore no make-up. But you had this fierceness, this strength in your eyes. Eyes the color of wheat during a sunset staring right into the depths of my soul. I was enthralled, _bewitched_, even.

I walked around the room, observing the various sculptures and mosaics, glancing at you out of the corner of my eye. There was a group of people swarming around you, so I had to wait my time. You sat patiently in your chair, observing me from afar. Your demeanor was calm and poised, but your eyes were daring me to come closer.

When I finally approached, the swarm of posh adults had dissented, and I was able to see you up close. You were bathed in yellow light, and it made your wavy hair glisten. It was held back in a loose bun, but pieces were falling out and the wisps of hair framed your face like ivy decorating a brick wall.

I sat on the wooden bench across from you, taking the power of you in like I cigarette smoke. I was on the cusp of speaking, but Abraxas intruded.

"Tom!" He pushed through the crowd to our little oasis. He saw us together and threw a cheeky grin my way. "Oh-am I interrupting something? I can come back another time and let you finish-" I cut him off.

"It's alright." I stand up from the bench and the line in your lips tells me you expect me to be back because we have unfinished business. Abraxas pulls me through the gallery and into the office in the back.

"Your probation officer called."

"Shit!" I pat my pant pockets, trying to find my cell, but it's gone. Abraxas pulls it from his tailored suit jacket.

"You gave it to me last night for safe keeping." He hands it to me. "I never understood why you're so scared to send drunk texts. It's like a rite of passage." With mad fingers, I dial Dumbledore's cell. He picks up after the second ring.

You must think that I don't want to talk, and that's not true. I want to talk to you so desperately it hurts. So I rush through the call-Dumbledore drags on about me picking myself up and not getting into bar fights. You probably assume I'm a wanker and that I've left. The minute Dumbledore stops his speech, I say goodbye and hang-up, shove the phone in my pocket, and run into the gallery. And there you are, surrounded once again by people with martinis and more money than sense. Abraxas stands behind me, staring at you with mild amusement.

"Do you know her?" I ask.

"No one does, but there haven't been any objections so far. Everyone seems to find her charming." I don't even know your name. Your name tag simply reads "_Hermione_".

You and I seem to belong to an older time period; we don't fit in with the Picassos and Pollocks. We are special. Like diamonds amongst piles of coal, we stand out in a crowd. It drives us together, bonds us.

You are not beautiful, you aren't even pretty, but you are captivating. Your gaze is powerful and intelligent and understanding. In your golden chair, you are Hera in your throne and I'm Prometheus lying at your feet.

You doubt me, but I don't talk this much to most people. Even amongst my friends, I'm the quiet pensive one. As a writer, I spend my time letting other people talk for me, but when I finally get the chance to talk to you, the words just pour out of my mouth. We talk all night until the gallery closes at 11 PM, but you're waiting for me there the next morning, and we continue where we left off. Talking to you is so easy.

You know that I'm a foster kid and that my high school journalism professor, Slughorn, paid for my education at university. You know that my dad never made an effort to see me, even though he knew I was alive. He was content to live out his life with his mansion and his sports cars and summers in Sicily. You know that the only time I saw him he told me to fuck off and leave him alone, because being with my mother and creating me was a mistake. And you don't judge me when I tell you I tinkered around with his car immediately after he tossed me to the curb and that he died in a "tragic" car accident soon after with his parents and girlfriend.

You know that I met with current friends at university, and that all of us are misfits in some way. Bellatrix is an openly pansexual woman from strictly conservative family. Abraxas ratted out his mob boss family when he was 11 years old to the police. Jackie Avery is transgender, Fenrir is a child refugee from the Apartheid in South Africa, and Rockwood is in remission from cancer for the second time in his short life. It only makes sense that we all clung to each other like life preservers.

You know about my arrest and probation, I made sure to be up front about that. The dirt under your fingernails tells me that you might be a fighter too, with blood that runs hot and a heart that burns at injustice.

You understand that I am not innocent or kind or selfless, but you forgive me for that and love me all the same. You seemed surprised someone could love you so much, but how could I not? Your strength and encouragement pushes me through the worst writing blocks and asshole publishers. You are not just a muse, but a deity.

You don't know it, but I worship you, I do. Saying you inspire me would be doing you an injustice. You are the reason why I breath, why my heartbeats. You give me a new life. In this gallery, I am a successful writer not living on his best friend's couch. I am a content young man who had a decent childhood and loving parents. These things are not true, but you make them so.

I adore you, heart and soul.

The first time I told you this, it was late at night and the moon was shining on us and I was lying next to you and you seemed to have already read my mind. Bellatrix had given me the keys to the gallery so that I could see you as often as I wanted. You never said the words back…

Loving you was never easy. Like every great pairing, we had our good days and our bad. When it started, every day was good. As the weeks wore on, the darkness set in and I knew our days were numbered. The exhibit was going on tour, and you were going with it.

You never opened up to me. You are such an isolated woman-you never let anyone in. No matter how many times I asked about you-backstory, friends, family, hobbies, passions-you never really answered.

My friends became concerned that I was spending too much time with you, that I was crazy to love you. To appease them, I tried to divide my time between you and them. It didn't go as planned. Your face in the moonlight as I wandered into the gallery looked so disappointed. Like I had betrayed you. I stumbled over to you and sank to the floor, praying for your forgiveness. But your gaze was now cold and hateful. Eyes that once understood me now scorned me.

No matter how many times I tell you what you mean to me, you don't listen. You continue your icy stare and it brings me to tears many nights.

The last time I told you I loved you, it was another late night but it was raining and lightning crashed overheard. I had staggered in, maybe a little drunk, (okay, you caught me, I was really drunk and a slightly buzzed from that joint). Your eyes judge me from your seat, and you don't understand why I'm here. You don't like it when I'm a mess, but you need to see how much I love you. The exhibit was getting packed up tomorrow, and this was the last time I would see you.

I reach out to touch you, but I can't. A wall of glass seems to separate us, and I pound and pound it like a madman. I scream your name, "Hermione! Hermione!", and you say nothing. You sit there and your stare bores into my soul. With vodka tears dribbling down my cheeks, you watch with indifference was I practically put my heart on a platter for you. You don't even reject it; you just sit there with loving words in your lap and just stare.

I scream, "Do something!" but you don't. You don't do _anything. _You don't tell me to man up or to stop crying. You don't comfort me and kiss my cheek. You don't do _anything_ but stare, and it hits me hard. Because I've poured all of me into loving you, and I thought you felt the same. Reduced to drunken babbling, I lay beside you, pawing at the glass that separates us.

At one point in the night, I call Officer Dumbledore and blubber to him. He listened in silence to our whole story before inviting me over to his office for breakfast in the morning. I fall asleep beside you, drunken, still upset, and feeling lonelier that ever before.

When I awoke, the sun began to kiss the windowsill with its orange glow, and it was time for me to go. I unearthed the gallery keys from my jacket pocket and left them on the counter. As always, I left the gallery alone, slipping my sunglasses on so no one would see my red-rimmed eyes. I glance back one last time before leaving, trying to stir some emotion from you. But it is useless, and I leave the gallery. I should have never fallen in love with you. I know that now. And now I understand you never could love me. Because, in the end, you're just a painting.


End file.
